Doing the Shopping
by KCS
Summary: Five times John took Sherlock shopping, and one time Sherlock returned the favour.  Gen, spoilers for S2, answer to a fic request on LiveJournal.  Warning for horrendous amounts of holiday fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**__****Title**: Doing the Shopping  
><strong>Characters<strong>: John, Sherlock, various  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Gen, humor, disgusting amounts of holiday fluff  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG for implications in second deleted scene  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 7707  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Takes place throughout established canon, so spoilers for basically all of S2 including TRF  
><strong>Summary<strong>: _Five times John took Sherlock shopping, and one time Sherlock returned the favour._  
><strong>AN:** Written for **reidluver**, in answer to my fic request thread during the **watsons_woes** birthday party post. So sorry it took so long, bb; my life has been entirely uncooperative of late and I've literally pounded at this thing in ten minute intervals.  
><strong>AN2:** There are two scenes I cut out of this simply because I was trying to keep to a short 5-and-1 format, so those will be posted probably sometime tomorrow just so you can see them. One takes place after #3 and one after #1.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Five times John took Sherlock shopping, and one time Sherlock returned the favor<em>**

* * *

><p>VI.<p>

The first time, John decides, is an experience to tell the children about, if he could ever keep a girlfriend long enough to marry and have them (which isn't likely, given that part of his unofficial Mycroft-given job description is nearly-constant entertainment of the biggest child he's ever seen).

Somehow, during the first few months of their flatshare, he and Sherlock had fallen into habits which have continued to the present day. These range from Sherlock learning very quickly that no, it was not done to wake a chap up at three in the morning to joyfully inform him that the toes in the mug on top of the fridge had reached the putrefaction stage - to John finally caving under the forces of hunger and hygiene, and realising that if he wanted to eat and remain clean he would have to continually do the shopping.

Sherlock would never remember to buy bread and milk until he died of malnutrition, and he had his own toiletries ordered online and delivered (ridiculous aristocratic pickiness, John was perfectly fine with shower gels which did not cost half a month's pension). Therefore, when John had attempted to point out, surprisingly mild, that it was hardly fair for him to do the shopping and then Sherlock eat half the biscuits he bought and pour the milk down the drain because he needed the carton...Sherlock's solution had been to hand him a debit card and shove him out the door for replacements.

"Not what I meant, Sherlock!" he had yelled through the door the first time it happened, and of course received no answer.

Well, good, then. Sherlock never asked for a receipt, and if John had used the card once or twice to rent videos or pay for a cab and a hot coffee in rainy weather, he rather thought he was entitled. Also, Sherlock never questioned the reappearance of things like those fancy chocolate biscuits he preferred when the whim took him, and so all around it seemed an amicable arrangement (except for those times when the shop's check-out machines decided they hated one John Watson and ate or bent or shredded or refused to take even Sherlock's card).

But today, today is a watershed event, because today he has all but dragged Sherlock out of the flat to go food-and-essentials shopping and, surprisingly enough, Sherlock brokered only a token protest (more out of boredom than desire to be a Good Flatmate, but John will take what he can get).

He does not bring the man along because Sherlock is any real help, but rather because he cannot be trusted alone in the flat in this mood. By this point, Sherlock has already caused a scene about not being permitted to buy decongestants in bulk over-the-counter, and John has already removed a quart of mint-chip ice cream and seventeen boxes of Sugar Flakes from the cart, which had magically reappeared as his back was turned to choose some apples. (He does not ask what Sherlock had planned to do with all that cereal, as he wishes to sleep well tonight.)

All this, before they've been in the store for a quarter of an hour.

Scowling like the four-year-old he is at heart, Sherlock disappears to go look at God-knows-what, and John breathes a sigh of relief and heads to look at that most epic of bachelor food, boxed pasta mixes.

Twenty or so boxes later (they are on special, buy one get one half-off, and Sherlock will appropriate a few of them for something or other anyway, John knows he will probably find rigatoni in the shower tomorrow), he moves on to refrigerated meats, thankful that he has another pair of hands to carry the shopping this time as it means he can stock up a bit. Sherlock's suggestion last time he struggled home, that he steal a shopping cart (they make you pay to get one out anyway, John, it is only fair, and you can return it next time you go.), was considerably unhelpful, and for that Sherlock will get to carry the packaged chicken breasts and ground beef on the Tube home.

He briefly contemplates the possibility - probability - that His Royal Cluelessness will refuse and will gladly pay an exorbitant price for a cab rather than carrying the groceries, and adds two more packages of chicken and a beef stir-fry mix to the cart.

Three aisles over, he hears a display of canned goods topple over, scattering diced pineapple and fruit mixes in a two-aisle radius. He fervently prays it was not _his_ child which started the mess, and casually heads as far in the opposite direction as he can get (read: as quickly as possible in the direction of the liquor aisle).

Sherlock reappears beside him ten minutes later, arms full of tinned peaches and a bag of chow mein noodles. John steadfastly refuses to ask.

A half-hour later they are nearly done, headed for the check-out point. John finally begins to relax, thinking they will get out of the place without serious mishap or embarrassing societal gaffe, when Sherlock espies a series of arcade games by the supermarket's doors. John's fingers clamped on his scarf prevent his making a beeline for the claw machine.

"Sherlock, no. Just...no," he says, glaring. "Never again. You are not going to leave me here with all this shopping, while you go throw a tantrum because you can't get the thing to snag something after feeding it four quid in coins."

Sherlock's expensive clothing and haughty sniff as he jerks his scarf free of John's grip look far out of place in a cheap supermarket. John privately thinks he's gone from looking like a psychopathic predator to just a plain nutter, which although an improvement is still getting them many odd looks.

It doesn't help that John struggles through the cash stand himself, scanning and bagging, while Sherlock boredly reads the ingredients for the ice cream - ice cream! The sneaky, conniving little _brat_! - out loud, noting their laxative effects on the digestive tract with a relish that makes the woman behind him scoot into the adjoining line rather than continuing on in theirs. John bags the pasta mixes and hands them off to his entirely unhelpful companion - who is now engaged in a staring contest with a wide-eyed toddler in the next line - before running his card through the chip-and-pin machine.

Wonder of wonders, or perhaps the magic touch of actually having enough money in the bank to back it up - it works on the first try, and he scrawls an illegible _S. Holmes_ on the keypad and then tugs Sherlock away from the baby and its increasingly creeped-out mother.

He resists the urge to call back something to the mother, to the effect of it not getting easier when they got older, but resists - mostly because Sherlock is, he notes with glee, casting a disgusted look at the plastic bags he carries. And sure enough, ten seconds later he steps out into the street and waves for a cab.

John shakes his head, but scrambles into the back after his eccentric new flatmate. Whatever the problems he has with Sherlock's lack of personal space and nauseating experiments, there are certain advantages to rooming with a well-off madman.

Now, if he plays his cards right, he might be able to finagle a pizza dinner out of his arcade-game-deprived companion...

* * *

><p>V.<p>

The second time, John wonders why he insists upon torturing himself so, and briefly muses on the possibility of framing Sherlock for shoplifting or something, giving him the interim of arrest-until-Mycroft-fixes-things, about three hours, of relative peace and quiet. Honestly, you would think the man has never been shopping for a Christmas gift before.

Actually...he winces internally at the thought that that might just be true. It would explain the enraptured expression on Sherlock's face this morning when he suggested taking advantage of a mild November day to get an early start on the business. John had explained over breakfast the concept of gift-giving to those you love at Christmastime, how to choose a gift right for the person, how most people just pop out and buy the first thing they see and how Sherlock would be perfect at finding presents because he deduces every detail about each person - an advantage over the average Christmas shopper. Sherlock had thoughtfully taken in every word, entirely absorbed, before spending twenty minutes deciding if the knowledge was worthy to be retained on his mental hard drive.

Judging from the sudden leap ten minutes after their discussion (startling him into sloshing coffee everywhere) for his coat and gloves, it was. And so, two hours later, John is dragging Sherlock out of Harrod's before they get thrown out by an outraged jeweller, whom his stellar flatmate has just managed to offend by personal observations about his love life, or lack thereof.

"He has no right to refuse to serve a high-paying customer simply because I said his wife was seeing her boss - _female_ boss - not in the way he thinks during those Friday 'girls' nights' out," Sherlock complains loudly as they cross the street. "That is blatant discrimination!"

"Oh, for the love of heaven." John elbows him, then tugs him out of the way of a straggling child. "I'd love to see you make a case of that in court. Discrimination against superior intellect is not a valid charge, Sherlock."

"Not _yet_," the detective mutters rebelliously, yanking out his mobile to fire off an irritated text, probably to his brother.

John rolls his eyes, and drags his flatmate into a lesser-priced store to try to locate a shawl for Mrs. Hudson. Thirty seconds later his phone beeps with a text message, from none other than Mycroft Holmes.

_You are a braver man  
>than I gave you credit<br>for being, Doctor. _

John rolls his eyes, and texts with the hand not occupied in checking price tags.

_Did your people  
>never celebrate the<br>holidays, or smthg?  
>Have never seen a<br>man so enthusiastic  
>about finding gifts.<em>

A gold-trimmed shawl in a lovely shade of dark plum, one of the few colors he knows Mrs. Hudson likes and looks good in, catches his eye, and he stands (embarrassingly on tiptoe) to reach it, but just barely falls short. Luckily, he is shopping with a half-giant, and Sherlock reaches over his head and yanks it down from the shelf. Unfortunately, he snatches the shawl on the bottom of the pile, and the entire pile cascades down in a shimmering cloud of rainbowy-metallic hues.

"Oh, well done, you," he sighs, as Sherlock ignores the pile and hands over his prize. "Shop girls are going to love us."

Mycroft sends him another message.

_Only as small children,  
>Doctor. No doubt<br>the novelty will wear  
>off shortly.<em>

Judging by the eager look Sherlock is giving a selection of lock-boxes, John highly doubts it. It is rather adorable, actually, though he values his life too much to say so, and he smiles as he makes his way across the shop to prevent the man buying something so expensive that it will embarrass Lestrade permanently (or make him search Sherlock on the spot for narcotics).

* * *

><p>IV.<p>

John doesn't learn from the first Christmas-shopping experience, or rather learns too much; namely, that the novelty does _not_ wear off, the next year at least. It surprises him, Sherlock's wholehearted fling into holiday sentimentality, but it really shouldn't; he knows better than anyone else that the man doesn't mean what he says the way it sounds, and this opportunity must be a brand-new once-a-year avenue of communication where he literally does not have to say anything to get his message across to people. And after the Events-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named and Sherlock's miraculous return to life, John has noticed that the man has changed. Just a bit, just a tiny bit - but that change is obvious to anyone who knows him, and knows his reasons for faking his own suicide. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock - and, John will always be grateful, Moriarty only succeeded in proving to the world that Sherlock _had_ one.

But it makes John painfully angry, more than anything, that it took until last Christmas for someone to even explain the holiday traditions to a grown adult. He does not want to think about what that says about Sherlock's university and young adult life; it is utterly disheartening. Sherlock's eagerness to test out a skill which he is good at by virtue of his own deductive prowess is almost childish in its glee, and he has had to actually rein the man in (Sherlock, unless you intend to ask Lestrade to marry you then yes, that watch is far too extravagant. And no, Sally is likely to punch you in the face if you buy her anything more personal than black gloves.) more than once last year and already this holiday season.

He made the mistake of showing Sherlock the joys of online shopping late in November, and regrets it now with every fibre of his being. The man is an eBay _menace_, and John is tired of their meals being interrupted by bidding war alerts on Sherlock's mobile every fifteen seconds or so.

Last year he at least didn't really have to worry about Sherlock buying him something horrendously awkward, simply because John was depressed and irritated with his flatmate about his latest girlfriend leaving, and Sherlock had been a bit moony about Irene Adler's apparent death and his brother's even more apparent meddling in his private life. Their holiday season had been strained at best, awkward at worst, and the small tokens they had exchanged had gone mostly unnoticed in the drama unfolding around them.

This year, Sherlock is up to something, he knows, and not just because it is their first Christmas since Sherlock's dramatic return to life early in the fall (holiday expenditure aside, John thinks he's entitled to nothing less than a cruise to the Bahamas, to make up for that little venture).

But they are past that by this time, and he now knows the man better than he ever did before Moriarty wrecked their lives for a while. Sherlock has his tells, even to the Regular Bloke portion of the population who _can't_ deduce a life story from a clipped fingernail - and he fairly vibrates with suppressed nervous energy for the week before Christmas. Even Lestrade notices, and comments on it with a grin that should irritate Sherlock to no end but which apparently only sets him off into another fit of childish glee, leaving the police at the scene staring at each other in dismay and plotting another drugs bust.

John is getting a bit scared by this point, three days before Christmas, because the only other times he's seen that look on Sherlock's face it has always portended something explosive (sometimes literally) which needed governmental involvement to cover or clean up.

Sherlock has also taken to locking himself in his room armed with three rolls of wrapping paper and six rolls of cellotape and ribbon, informing John that attempts to enter or open the stack of boxes which have migrated to the hall to await their turn will result in Dire Consequences and his Great Displeasure. John mildly points out that he has absolutely no reason nor desire to enter the death-trap Sherlock calls a bedroom, and is given nothing more than a tolerant roll of the eyes and an actual, honest-to-God _pat on the head_ before his insufferable flatmate vanishes with a click of door-latch.

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock's iDock is blaring out a radio channel of horrendous Christmas pop music.

John looks up incredulously from his laptop (he has long ago given up password-protecting it, but he wishes Sherlock would stop giving out John's email address for his online shopping accounts because the amount of marketing spam he gets daily is positively ghastly), head cocked in disbelief, and decides that he has created a monster.

* * *

><p>III.<p>

The fourth time, is actually Christmas Eve - the worst and best shopping night of the entire year, in John's opinion. Snow had begun to fall around mid-afternoon, much to the entire holiday-loving world's delight, and by the time John realises they have absolutely no food in for Christmas Day and Mrs. Hudson is in the country visiting her sister, there is a thick, fluffy dusting on the ground, pavement, and everything else without a pulse.

It's a veritable fairytale-esque winter wonderland, and he has no idea he's been rambling enthusiastically about it for thirty minutes until Sherlock flutters by him, wrapped in a fleece blanket, and snaps a grumpy "Cut out the poetry, John, _do_," before appropriating the last of the coffee and hurling himself into the couch like a stroppy toddler. The man's holiday cheeriness has dissipated in the last twelve hours, for reasons only known to Sherlock; whereas before he had been full of boundless enthusiasm, now he lies a brooding jumble of dressing gown and blanket on the couch, scowling at the world.

John ignores his yowls of protest an hour later when he utilizes a video from Lestrade's secret footage stash to lever his flatmate out of his sulk and into outerwear that can hold up to a few blocks' brisk walk. Sherlock mutters and curses and threatens half-heartedly to put John's laptop on the top shelf of the bookcase again, but in the end John's blackmail wins out, and they find themselves strolling down Baker Street in a curtain of softly-falling, fluffy snowflakes.

It's like something out of a storybook, a rare occurrence in rainy London, and John thinks it's rather appropriate, given that his life this year has been fairly storybook. He'd be willing to wager that no other man in London basically commanded his best friend to come back from the dead - and was _obeyed_. His life is surreal on a regular basis, but far more so these nine months, and he thinks he can be excused a bit of sappy sentimentality on such a beautiful Christmas Eve.

"You have no right to be so cheerful in such frigid conditions," Sherlock mutters as they walk, crunching snow underfoot.

"What right have you to be so dismal? What right have you to be morose?" (1) he half-quotes back, and shakes his head when Sherlock misses the reference entirely (no surprise there). "It's the time of year to be _happy_, Sherlock. Joy to the world and all that?"

He receives a glare which could incinerate wet bricks. "It is the time of year for the general populace to force society into celebration of an increasingly commercial holiday usually spent in purchasing token gifts for people who do not deserve or need them, and inflicting enforced fellowship with the extraneous members of one's family or circle of acquaintances."

John stares at him, and then has to dodge a lamp-post, taking two steps to every one of Sherlock's as he hurries to catch up. "Sherlock," he says as he reaches him, and tugs at the man's coat sleeve to turn him.

Sherlock yanks free but stops, folds his arms as he turns to look at John. He is oddly haloed in the light of a street-light, like an unwilling dark angel, and John shakes off an eerie shiver at What Might Have Been. "Sherlock, seriously now. Even you aren't usually this sulky, holiday or not. Is something the matter?"

Grey-blue eyes refuse to meet his, sliding from side to side like a cornered animal looking for an escape route. Then Sherlock sighs, a dismal puff of ice-crystals in the crisp air. He rolls his eyes heaven-ward, and then absently sends a lump of snow flying off the toe of his shoe.

"Sherlock?"

"I..." He looks embarrassed, to John's surprise, a spot of flaming pink high in each cheekbone, the only colour on an already pale face chilled more with cold. "I have been unable to decide what..." he trails off, clearing his throat.

John is no world's-only-consulting-private-amateur-whatever-else-detective, but he is an expert in his field - one Sherlock Holmes. He grins, feeling the irritation with the man melt away like the snow is doing on their exposed skin. "You haven't got me a Christmas present, have you?" he asks suddenly, trying his best not to sound like he's holding in laughter at Sherlock's adorably embarrassed expression.

"No," his friend mumbles gracelessly. He scowls at a man who passes them carrying three brightly-wrapped gifts held safely under an umbrella, as if that man is solely responsible for his lack of gift-choosing prowess.

"Oh, well, if that's all." John carefully conceals his amusement, and gives Sherlock a gentle push toward the warmly-lit door of the Sainsbury's. "Come on, we need food if we're going to survive being snowed in for the holidays."

"I still do not see why my presence was necessary," Sherlock grouses, though he looks relieved that the subject of gifts has been dropped so smoothly.

"One, we need enough food for a few days if necessary and I only have two arms. Two," John scoots out of the way of a harried-looking woman lugging a plastic basket and four children under the age of six, "you are the best person I know for the job of clearing a path through humanity. People just seem to edge away from you, which works in my favour in a supermarket. Can't imagine why." He hands Sherlock a basket and plops a bag of cheap oranges into it.

Sherlock scowls, and snatches a pomegranate and a package of blackberries with a well-bred sniff.

They continue in much the same manner; John tosses a box of saltines into the basket and Sherlock adds a packet of gourmet party crackers. John chooses dish soap due to the buy-one-get-one sticker; Sherlock spends nearly ten disdainful minutes deciding on an air freshener for the hall. John decides to splurge on a bottle of wine, only to find when he turns back to the shopping basket that Sherlock has switched it out for one at least three times the price.

As he fully plans on returning to their pre-Reichenbach arrangement (he morbidly chuckles at the idea that he seems to designate his life now as B.S.D. and A.S.D. - Before and After Sherlock's Death), namely paying for household goods and food with Sherlock's money and not his, he decides to let it slide; after all, he should be grateful that Sherlock is actually taking an interest in food at all. If the man wants an eighteen-quid cheesecake sampler for some bizarre reason, he is not going to argue, only to make sure he stashes one of the raspberry pieces somewhere safe like Mrs. Hudson's body-part-free fridge before Sherlock gets his forceps and test tubes on the remainder.

They quibble good-naturedly over the merits of trying to cook a small turkey (I assure you, John, it is simplistic chemistry, which even you could follow under my direction) or simply buy a cold-cut tray (Typical bachelor approach, John. What _will_ the tabloids say.) for Christmas dinner, finally settling on a rotisserie chicken and the necessary ingredients for paninis. John heads toward the dried tomatoes, and shoos Sherlock down the frozen goods aisle with instructions to buy some bagged vegetables and possibly a frozen lasagne. He should not be surprised, he knows, to see the man return with one solitary bag of frozen crinkle-cut chips (potatoes are not vegetables, Sherlock, did you _delete_ basic nutrition facts?) and a tub of double chocolate mint ice cream instead, both of which he stubbornly - and loudly - refuses to part with, much to John's embarrassment.

After a few lesser battles than the War of the Ice Cream Aisle, they struggle through the holiday checkout line (half an hour wait, which is simply asking for trouble when one is shopping with Sherlock Holmes), and then head out into the crisp, snow-sprinkled night. Sherlock grumbles for half a kilometre about having to carry groceries (it's next to impossible to get vehicular transport on a beautiful Christmas Eve), before he subsides into an introspective silence which raises a small flag of alarm in John's Sherlock-senses.

"You all right, Sherlock?" he asks finally, deciding the blunt approach is the most likely to get a response.

Sherlock looks at the pavement before them as they walk, footsteps crunching in the tingling air. "Perfectly," he replies, quick and curt.

John is not deterred. He deftly shifts the heavier of his bags to his right arm, half-twirling as he makes the switch. "Are you certain?" This gets him a supercilious look which is half-familiar, half not so, mostly because he can see some slight sadness in it. "You don't look it," he adds with friendly bluntness.

"I have been...thinking, overmuch, of late," Sherlock finally admits unexpectedly. His shoes scuff ever so slightly, kicking a clump of sparkling snow off to the side. "I did not expect to be back in less than a year, I will admit. I was prepared for far longer."

John nods; they both have Mycroft Holmes's scary efficiency to thank for exterminating the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate before Sherlock had even been in hiding for three months. John, highly skeptical, had demanded the photographs to prove the elder Holmes's claims, and they had not been pretty.

It will be a cold day in hell before he, for one, thinks about crossing Mycroft Holmes again.

"I can't say I'm sorry," he says, smiling above his scarf at a striking young brunette who hurries by. "If you hadn't come back I'd probably be at Harry's flat about now, and what a pair we'd make. Bizarre eating habits and all, I much prefer hauling you in and out of supermarkets to waking up Christmas Day with nothing more pleasant to look forward to than a hangover and unpleasant sibling dinner."

Sherlock flicks him a glance, though his lips do quirk at one side in amusement, before he looks back at the pavement. This is a different Sherlock, a new Sherlock: one that John still has not, even after almost four months, quite figured out yet. They have both changed much in the last year, and while their relationship has weathered the storm successfully there yet remains some vestige of uncertainty between them.

In a way, John feels like he's just returned from another war; this one not an ongoing territorial dispute full of bloodshed and atrocity, but a kind of cold war - full of unseen menace, political intrigue, slander and lies. It's the difference between the front lines and the spy-realm, and for all their falling back into old habits, he still feels sometimes like they've both been through another type of war. He, emotionally - fighting to not succumb to the all-encompassing desolation which had threatened for so many weeks, battling to clear Sherlock's name and reputation, grieving for the loss of what had felt at the time everything, moving on through the stages of grief, and most of all: struggling to understand _why_. But for Sherlock, it had been mental and physical - John still half-believes the man burned down the gates of Hell itself to return, simply because he never could resist a touch of the melodramatic - and Sherlock still seems a bit off, a little unsure of himself and his standing with the world, including his friends and acquaintances.

And who wouldn't be, John reasons, when half the public still has no idea if they believe you're alive, much less deems you innocent of past accusations.

"You know," he remarks conversationally, as they move down Oxford Street, "...it is the season for forgiveness, Sherlock."

The man glares at him peripherally, lips pressed into a whip-dash of thin tension. Snowflakes flutter down to clump, sparkling, on his eyelashes and contracted eyebrows. "Spare me your petty sentimentalism, John," he snaps, with more rancour than John has heard in quite a while. It's actually more reassuring than anything else, a return to normality that has been slightly lacking of late. "And whatever happened to forgiving a perceived offense and then dropping it - why else rehash what we have already at length discussed?"

John exhales in a cloud of vapour, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Or smack the insufferable idiot upside the head with a frozen dinner. "Wasn't talking about me, you great berk," he says in exasperation.

Sherlock pauses, having the grace to look slightly abashed, and shakes the snow from his hair to hide the fact. "No?"

"No," John repeats dryly. "I forgave you the minute you reappeared in the lounge. Granted, I still _hate_ you, a bit, but I did forgive you and that hasn't changed. I've no right not to do so."

Sherlock grins, tiny but genuine, at that, and they continue walking. "Who, then?" Sherlock asks finally, after John is beginning to wonder if his obvious lead-in is a bit _too_ obvious for the man's whirring brain to grasp hold of.

He bumps Sherlock's arm companionably as they turn onto Baker Street, walking more briskly at the sight of their warmly-lit windows. "I don't think you've forgiven yourself, yet, Sherlock," he says quietly. "Remember, you don't have to keep apologising. Bad example, sorry," he adds, as Sherlock's face twists in embarrassment at the memory of his own thoughtlessness. "But really, Sherlock. Let it go - the rest of the world can go hang if they want to keep bringing it up, but let. It. Go."

Sherlock stops on their doorstep, staring at him as if he's just been given the world for Christmas - and possibly he has, if John can read his reactions as well as he should. Evidently _Absolution_ is a far greater gift than the new violin case he's got upstairs wrapped under their tree; obviously even the great Sherlock Holmes needed to hear just one more time that he had done the Right Thing, the Good Thing - the thing that very few men, much less self-professed sociopaths, would have had the nerve and selfless love to do.

Sherlock never has viewed himself as being, as he put it, 'on the side of the angels.' John begs to differ. Because, if he remembers his grandmother's old stories correctly, angels have two jobs in the world: to fight off demons, and to protect people. And for him at least, Sherlock has already accomplished both those tasks many times over.

John doesn't need any other Christmas gift than that, and he says as much after dinner (when they've both mellowed quite a bit, a bit too much actually, from the bottle of wine Sherlock purchased). Sherlock, sitting on the couch nursing his fourth glass, looks at him with unmitigated horror, pronounces him a maudlin drunk, and slurs at his 'mawkish sentimentality' until John finally silences him with a pillow to the head, whereupon he flops over onto the couch and starts snoring softly, pillow still half-covering his face. John has the presence of mind to run the heating up and plug Sherlock's mobile in, so as to prevent much ado about nothing in the morning, and then falls asleep himself, grinning over the picture he snapped of Sherlock drooling onto the couch cushions.

Life is good. It is also utterly insane.

But mostly good.

* * *

><p>II.<p>

The fifth time, he is close to threatening, cajoling, blackmailing, and finally forcibly yanking Sherlock into the shop. Sherlock Holmes, he is informed (quite loudly, to his indignity), has never been inside a second-hand or thrift shop except in search of coats for his homeless network, and has no intention (still stated loudly) of sullying his own wardrobe in that hideous fashion for recreational shopping.

A year ago, his vocalizations would have embarrassed John. But now, not so. A few months ago, John commanded a dead man to return from the grave and he obeyed - and that, according to mythology, accords him power over the netherworld. One mere human is hardly a challenge.

"I'll just ring your brother and tell him who nicked his keys and umbrella and locked him out of his car yesterday in the pouring rain, then, shall I?" he inquires, scrolling down his mobile's calls menu.

"He deserved it!"

"He certainly did not, Sherlock. Now, I want to look for some things, since someone-who-needs-to-find-a-hobby has destroyed about half of the flat's furnishings in the last two months, including some of my old medical texts and all but two of the coffee mugs." John folds his arms, impassive, and refuses to retreat in the face of Sherlock's (failed) attempt at dramatic looming. "Coming quietly?"

Sherlock comes, though not really quietly, and protests as loudly and continually as he can without drawing undue attention to themselves (a moot attempt, really, John thinks with a sigh, since Sherlock I-look-like-a-bloody-fashion-model Holmes draws attention wherever he goes). John ignores the smatter of grumbling insults and heads for the book section, intent upon replacing a few tomes which Sherlock appropriated for nefarious purposes involving setting the tablecloth afire last week. Sherlock follows in his wake like a rebellious child, occasionally stopping to examine various items which pique his catlike attention span.

John starts perusing a bookshelf of hard-backed books (Sherlock has been instructed to not touch the hardbacks, though the softbacks are fair game unless John is reading them at the time), and only realises when everything has gone quiet in the nearly-deserted shop that that is not a good sign. He peers warily around the shelf, cursing his stature, and is relieved to see that Sherlock is strolling aimlessly between shelves of knick-knacks, hands safely in his pockets.

Honestly, it is a bit like shopping with a toddler. John has no idea why people continually ask if they're a couple; it would be like his dating a charming but completely _mental_ nephew or something.

He shakes his head and returns to his bookshelves, pulling out one dusty volume that looks interesting merely because it must be nearly seventy years old, the binding still in good condition and the pages brittle and browning with age. John has always loved books, has ever since a child, and though he's a firm believer in the technological age of e-readers (he keeps dropping hints to Sherlock about getting him one for his birthday and Sherlock is of course selectively unobservant) nothing will, in his opinion, ever quite feel the same as holding an antiquated tome in one's hands. He loves books, and has never had much room to possess very many, so he chooses and reads with loving care.

That had been their first really serious row after Sherlock's return, actually - centreing around books. Sherlock had run out of litmus paper strips and had apparently thought that ripping the blank pages and glossary out of one of John's old medical texts to manufacture more was a worthy enough cause that John would not be annoyed.

John had not been annoyed. John had been _livid_. The text had cost him a good sixty-five pounds in medical school and who rips out the glossary of any textbook, anyway?

Hence, the ground rules about it being open season on paper-backed books in the flat (not when I've obviously got a bookmark in it, Sherlock!) but not his more precious hard-backed ones.

Something clatters to the tiled flooring a few metres away, but nothing sounds broken, and so he decides to ignore the noise and adds the old book to the stack of three in his hands. He moves on down the shelf, looking wistfully at a handsome leather-and-gilt edition of some French novel he's never heard of, and then continues on to the next shelf, which appears to hold cookery books and miscellanea.

Twenty minutes later, he has six books and is in a considerably better frame of mind than he had been upon entering the shop. Unfortunately, that enthusiasm is somewhat dampened when he realises he can't find Sherlock anywhere. He strides quickly through the racks of clothing, past the dishabille of unsorted donations, skims the aisles of appliances in the faint suspicion that Sherlock was buying something from which to salvage bomb components, and still can't find the man. Finally, in desperation, he makes a circuit of the back half of the shop, even though it is filled with children's clothing and accessories, and to his surprise finds his quarry in the toy and game section, something brown and blue and yellow and furry tucked under one arm and a boxed board game in his hands.

"Been looking for you," he says by way of cautious greeting as he approaches, trying to see what Sherlock is looking at. "Find something, then?"

Sherlock looks up, blushing slightly, and hastily shoves the game back onto the shelf (John notes with amusement that it is some sort of pirate-themed pop-up game). He does not, however, relinquish the scruffy bundle of fur he holds under one arm, and at John's raised eyebrow reluctantly holds it up for inspection.

It's a well-worn, though (dubiously) clean, Paddington Bear, its jacket and coat still in excellent condition.

"Ooo-kay."

"I have not seen one since I was a child," Sherlock muses aloud, inspecting it from every angle while John watches, half in fascination with learning more about his friend and half because it's just too adorable to be real. "Left it at a train station one day when I was small."

"And you never got a replacement?" John asks, frowning curiously.

Sherlock's eyes harden. "I was too old for such things," he replies shortly.

John has the suspicion that means not much older than five or six, knowing what little he did of his flatmate's upbringing, but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"Well," he says, reading the tag, "it's in excellent condition, and it's only two pounds."

Sherlock scoffs, "Why would I need a dingy stuffed animal?"

"Why not?" John counters sensibly. After all, it at the least would entertain the man for longer than an hour. Completely worth two quid. "Think of the experiments you could run to deduce its previous owner." He schools his features into a picture of innocence. "Scientific data, that's all it is, Sherlock."

"Oh, indubitably."

"Actually quite logical."

"Quite."

A clerk who can barely be of age to work saunters by, snapping her gum loudly, and gives them both a wary are-you-two-perverts look that lets John know they've spent too long in this section.

"Well, come along then," he says, elbowing Sherlock as he passes on his way down the aisle. "And bring your precious widdle bear with you. My treat."

The glare which skims his head makes him grin down at his stack of books, but Sherlock does fall into step with him, clutching the plush animal tightly in both long arms. It's a bit ridiculously adorable, really, and completely worth the hassle of dragging Sherlock around with him for an hour.

Also, it triples the number of comments on his blog when he uploads the picture he snapped without Sherlock's knowledge.

* * *

><p>I.<p>

"Really, John, it's hardly asking too much of you!" Sherlock allows himself to scowl openly, because he has not counted on being told off in fine form as he is. Obviously saying _You can't be seen in my company on this case wearing that ghastly knit crime-against-the-textile-industry_ was a Bit Not Good. "Casinos have standards, John, and if we are to infiltrate this one you must be attired appropriately. Do try to not be so sensitive; it's hardly becoming in a man your age."

"Sherlock, not all of us think it's necessary to look like a ruddy fashion plate!" John waves his jumper-padded arms for emphasis, which only serves to affix the opinion more solidly in Sherlock's mind. That horrid monstrosity of cable-knitted puce simply _has_ to go.

"It's for a _case_," he says, arms folded, because that is his fall-back for any activity which John deems Unnecessary or Ridiculous or Will-This-Get-Us-Arrested. He decides to attempt a suitable pleading expression, complete with the dejection of a kicked puppy should John refuse.

And refuse he does, heartlessly uncaring of Sherlock's gallant efforts. "I am not letting you take me _clothes_ shopping, Sherlock!" John expostulates, ignoring his pleading expression. Sherlock frowns. (Mental note: John's immunity to pity expanding. Must have Disney movie night to rectify.) "Especially at the kind of shops you like to go to," he adds, frowning as if Sherlock's choice of tailor somehow is unacceptable. Hardly.

"If it is the money you're worried about, all expenses are being signed over to the client, John," he reminds his flatmate - more than that, but right now Sherlock is Quite Annoyed so that is all John means at the moment - patiently. He personally is rather looking forward to a new suit and shirt set, courtesy of the casino's owner.

John glares at him defensively, and Sherlock finally takes the time to study him properly. He is in the habit of looking over and around John instead of _at_ him, simply because if he does he becomes a bit too fascinated by the ever-unfolding mystery which is this unique being Fate gifted his short attention span (also, John has informed him it is more than a little creepy when he does that; evidently stalking one's flatmate around the house and invading personal space only to stare at a man's eyes is just Not Done). Now, he studies John's face with the scrutiny reserved for one of his experiments, and he sees more discomfort than anything else; embarrassment, rather than true annoyance.

Well, then there is no alternative. Sacrifices must be made in these situations, and never let it be said that Sherlock I-jumped-off-a-building-for-you Holmes shied away from such sacrifices.

"_Please_, John," he says, and tries to sound sincere rather than manipulative.

John gifts him a sour expression, and Sherlock smiles beatifically.

Their trek through Oxford and Piccadilly is rather more pleasant than he had been anticipating, given John's reluctance to darken the door of any store out of his comfort zone. But a cup of fancy coffee and a lemon pastry at one of the nearby cafes has paved the way to a more mellow state of mind, and by the time Sherlock selects the necessary accessories and then hauls John into Westwood's for fitted evening wear, his friend is more at ease.

Granted, said ease disappears when John tries the first (almost indecently well-fitting) suit on and the shop clerk starts ogling him appreciatively, but Sherlock considers it a win. John fidgets uncomfortably during the fitting, more due to the clerk's close proximity than because it takes long to make the alterations. Running to and from crime scenes (and explosions, and angry pawnbrokers, and the police on the odd occasion, and so on) keeps the both of them fairly fit, and the only real adjustment is in the trouser length, over which Sherlock teases John mercilessly.

John sticks him with a pin in retaliation, Sherlock tosses a purple shirt over his head, and they both laugh. The clerk beams at them both, eyes sliding meaningfully between them as he steps back for final approval. John turns slowly, a little awkwardly, before the mirror, ears reddening as Sherlock inspects him with detached interest. The suit is a deep ebony, almost blueish black, trim and showing off the compact body of a soldier - and it is even slightly reminiscent of a military uniform in cut, which is perfect for John's usual attentive stance.

"That will do," he decides, and selects a sapphire-blue shirt in John's measurements to accompany the cufflinks he's already picked out. Quiet opulence is the impression they wish to give, which is why he has chosen the step down from a full-out tuxedo (also, that way John will have a _decent_ suit to wear when they're towed into Whitehall next time).

John is only to eager to relinquish the attention to him, and he gleefully makes the clerk run to and fro finding the perfect fit, cut, and material - nearly twenty minutes until he is satisfied. He finally decides to make a bold statement, since he is trying to attract the attention of the female con artists they are after, and puts a blood-red shirt under the black suit, leaving the top button unbuttoned, before he steps out to get John's opinion.

Judging from the yawing expanse of jaw-dropping, it will be a hit. These funny little people with their visual cortex-stimulated hormones - it is just too amusing. The clerk is unashamedly staring at him, though he ignores this and pirouettes before the mirror, appreciating the fine tailoring which makes all the difference in gentlemen's clothing.

"Well?" he asks, redundantly as he well knows it is nothing less than _fabulous_.

John's cool nod of approval belies his wide-eyed stare, and he raises an eyebrow knowingly.

"I'm straight, not blind, you daft idiot," John mutters only for his ears, then waves him away with a small grin.

He gives one more appreciative turn in the mirror and nods, satisfied. "Will it do, you think?"

"Conceited prat. You know full well it will."

"Do I detect jealousy, John?"

"You're the detect_ive_, you tell me. And don't come crying to me if you get jumped in that getup tonight."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The clerk's eyes dart back and forth between them, coming to _exactly_ the wrong conclusion.

John rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to correct the unspoken assumptions, because by now he has ceased to care, and it literally has never occurred to Sherlock to care one way or the other. That doesn't, however, prevent him from taking a bit of revenge on his longsuffering friend for John's forcing him to wash up the dishes this morning, however.

"We'll take them both, Jeffers," he calls airily over his shoulder. "Want to help me get out of this, John?"

John's strangled swearing is drowned out by the clerk's giggles.

It is going to be _such_ an enjoyable day.

* * *

><p>(1) From <em>A Christmas Carol<em>, loosely paraphrasing (by memory) Scrooge's nephew in the first chapter.


	2. Deleted Scenes

**Title**: Doing the Shopping (Deleted Scenes 1&2)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: (main) John, Sherlock (second deleted scene) also Lestrade, Donovan  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Gen, humor, disgusting amounts of holiday fluff  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG for implications in second deleted scene  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: (main) 7707 | (deleted scenes) 691 & 4,031  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Takes place throughout established canon, so spoilers for basically all of S2 including TRF. Mild rare shipping in first deleted scene; don't ask where it came from, but it fascinates me and I may pursue it at my leisure someday  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Scene One: Lestrade and Donovan see John's new suit at the scene. Scene Two: Sherlock does come up with a Christmas present for John, one far more personal than a hastily-bought gift could be.

**A/N2:** Here are the two deleted scenes, just for those who might be interested in what didn't make the cut. I tend to over-write things and so usually end up with a lot of cut material that just doesn't go with the oneshot or else interrupts the flow (esp. in a five-and-one, where the parts need to really be the same length if possible to satisfy my OCD tendencies).

* * *

><p>DELETED SCENE 1 - After the final part (Sherlock &amp; John buying suits for the casino case)<p>

Lestrade is waiting for them in front of a car containing their bugging equipment and a nondescript sergeant he's never met before. Lestrade is attired in a tuxedo (that style went out two years ago, but it will do in a pinch if he has the attitude to pull off the operation), and appears a bit too enthusiastic about infiltrating a casino in search of _femme fatales_. Donovan, equally well-attired in what appears to be an actually flattering evening gown in a deep rust colour, looks less excited, but then she is only there to basically track their quarry into the lavatories if need be so he really can't blame her.

Sherlock absently slams the door of the cab before remembering John is inside as well, and hastily opens it again, ignoring the glare he receives. Lestrade coughs to hide his laughter, while John huffs a longsuffering sigh, pays the cab driver, and turns, self-consciously straightening his new jacket (nervous habit, it would give him away in an instant to someone like Sherlock, but will probably be put down to adrenaline inside the casino).

Lestrade chokes on his peppermint, and Donovan's long, enthusiastic whistle could be heard in Hampstead.

John turns the colour of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock hides his grin. One of the con artists in question has helped him before on a case involving rigged gambling tables, and he has no wish to see a valuable resource incarcerated for nothing more than guilt by association and some minor infractions. Part of his reasons for insisting they accompany Lestrade on the case (because even Donovan could competently make the arrest) is to get his informant safely out of the danger zone before Lestrade swoops in with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

Now, with John as distraction (Donovan has not taken her entirely too wandering eyes off his flatmate), he will have free rein to dance around the official channels and find his quarry before the authorities step in and muddy the waters.

To his surprise, John accepts Donovan's nudge and, glancing reassuringly at Sherlock, takes off with her as soon as they arrive. Sherlock loses sight of them in the crowd, and turns to Lestrade. The DI is still staring unbelieving at the disappearing couple, and only comes back to himself with a start when Sherlock pokes him in the back of the head.

Then he asks, "D'you get the feeling we're about to get shown up?"

"Statistically likely," Sherlock agrees, watching as the duo weave expertly amongst the throng and settle in at a table, nodding in easy greeting to their fellow gamblers.

Sherlock had not really anticipated John's little-indulged gambling vice performing in their favour, but between John's risk-taking and Donovan's sharp intuition, they make a small fortune over the course of the evening. Lestrade gets his con artist, Sherlock gets his informant out the secret back exit of the casino, and Donovan -

Donovan gets _John_, much to Sherlock's amusement and John's fascinated half-terror. Sherlock mouths "You're welcome" at his flatmate as the man is fairly dragged up to Sally's apartment for 'coffee' (he does not care, and certainly does not care to know, if it is literal or a mere euphemism).

Lestrade stares at the empty stairwell up to Sally's apartment, blinking with ponderous slowness.

"What are you doing?" he then asks, as Sherlock busies himself with his mobile.

"Sending John a text to remind him that his suit costs more than six months' rent and for the love of all things sensible hang it _up_."

"Ah...right." An awkward cough, and a mutter which sounds suspiciously like _I don't get paid enough for this._

Sherlock finishes the text and presses Send.

"Don't suppose you'd be able to convince your client to let you take me shopping too, eh?"

Sherlock's eyes glint in warning. "Certainly not."

"Well," Lestrade continues, grinning as he bounces on the balls of his feet, "y'could at least tell me what my 'colours' are, Sherlock, it's the least you can do."

"Oh, shut _up_, Lestrade."

* * *

><p>DELETED SCENE 2 - After part 3 (shopping and a late Christmas Eve)<p>

Sherlock is miserably asleep in his bedroom when John descends on Christmas Day, judging from the sign taped to the door indicating that he is not to be disturbed until dinnertime unless John is bringing him prescription-strength painkillers. But there is a small box sitting on his desk, wrapped in white paper and sporting a small gold bow which John is ninety percent certain Sherlock nicked off one of the presents John wrapped and put under the tree during the week. He laughs and opens it over his morning coffee-and-biscuit routine, half-expecting something dead or - worse! - only_ half-_dead inside.

But his gift is just a mobile phone, which is a bit odd, considering it's obviously battered and not in packaging - and then, as he inspects it and its contents, he realises. It must be the mobile Sherlock used when he was in hiding, those five months while he was presumably dead and trying to take out the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate. It looks vaguely familiar, but where he's seen it he can't remember just at the moment.

He has the feeling this is a legitimate gift, not just one of Sherlock's little games; this is the man himself giving a part of himself back, a part of his life that John was not privy to due to circumstances. He smiles, and flips through the photo gallery first. Nothing really of note there (mostly photos of random people, presumably suspects and associates of Moriarty), save a few pictures in an album labeled Personal.

There's one of Lestrade, slightly blurry and distant, as the DI directs traffic at a crime scene, and one of Mrs. Hudson which appears to have been taken from the house opposite as she walks next door to Speedy's. There are two or three of Molly, surprisingly, and one of a scruffy grey cat which he presumes is Molly's beloved _Smokes _poking his nose curiously into the phone's camera lens. There is one of Mycroft asleep with his feet up on a nondescript desk (his flat? family estate? not a government office, at least) and a nearly-empty cake plate near his left heel, and John snorts crumbs into his sinuses with laughter. There are a few of other people John barely recognises, for they are taken from distances, and then he comes across a quite clear one of him and Lestrade eating breakfast at an outdoor cafe in the Strand one sunny morning. Lestrade is leaned forward, pointing at something in a newspaper, and John is smiling at whatever Greg is saying; he remembers the day as being one of the first few in which he actually began to feel _alive_ and semi-_normal_ again.

His breath hitches slightly when he sees the next picture is that of a mural someone in Sherlock's Irregular band had graffitied on the side of a bridge piling; a black silhouette of him, edged in garish yellow, that says _We believe in Sherlock Holmes_ below it with a painted flourish distinctive of young Raz's handiwork. John has long since forgiven Sherlock, but if he had not he would now, staring at this still, voiceless broadcast of just how lonely and isolated his friend had to have been, to count this photo as worthy of taking and saving.

Then there's another photo, of John strolling out with the new receptionist at the surgery - Laura, her name had been, but he wasn't in the frame of mind to seriously pursue any relationship at that point - and a glass-blurred one of him getting the morning papers from the doorstep of 221B. One of him at a Tesco's, and how John didn't see a six-foot-tall man randomly taking a photo of him selecting breakfast cereal is beyond his understanding (soldiers should have better instincts!). One of him smiling on the doorstep of 221B, holding a small bouquet of spring flowers for Mrs. Hudson, and another of him obliviously talking on his phone outside the clinic where he still works occasionally.

And then he flicks to the last photo, and smiles. His own profile greets him, as he is questioningly intent upon something off screen, while Sherlock stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder and the other arm outstretched to point out the object in question. Sherlock's coat flaps in the wind behind him, and his eyes gleam with the fervour of a case; John looks fondly tolerant at his antics and is smiling slightly at the invasion of personal space. It's thoroughly unposed, casual, comfortable, and just a great shot - and he has Lestrade to thank for it. It's the same photo John has framed on his desk. Nothing spectacularly dramatic like putting it on his bedside table. and nothing like blowing it up to a wall mural size; just a simple photo in a simple wooden frame, but it has stood there since the day Lestrade sent it to him a few months before Moriarty resurfaced into their lives. He's no idea when Greg took it, but he's thanked the man several times over.

From anyone else the album would be disturbingly stalkerish - but from Sherlock, it is heartwarming to know that he kept an eye on them, all of them (but especially John, as he notes with a glow of affection), as best he could in his absence; in Sherlock's own bizarrely demonstrative way.

John's feeling of being about eighty percent pleased, five percent flattered, and fifteen percent disturbed by this Sherlock-stalking only increases when he moves from the still media folder to the video folder. The first video appears to be nothing more than a fifteen-second clip of Smokes trying to gnaw his way through a tortilla chip in what must be Molly's kitchen. Should he have gotten Sherlock a cat for Christmas, then?

The second video is a downloaded stream of footage from the news reports the day after Sherlock's purported death; a distorted, libelous version of events with just enough truth mixed in to make it entirely believable. John's seen the footage dozens of times, and has no desire to do so again. He clicks onward to the next video.

This one, he is touched that Sherlock kept; it's the afterthought, barely-twenty-seconds-long clip from the most prominent of the news services covering the scandal, in which John had been exonerated completely from all charges and allegations of involvement with the entire fiasco (Mycroft's doing, though John had not even cared at that point if he was considered a fraud as well, as nothing really mattered by then).

There's a couple of news clips, a ten-second video chat with Mycroft over money issues, a jerky video of what he assumes is filmed evidence for something Sherlock needed, a covert operation of some kind. There's a random clip saved from the website of an up-and-coming amateur classical pianist, and a music/photo montage video one of their 'fans' had put together and uploaded to YouTube a month after Sherlock's death. There's another music video of some lilting Celtic violinist, and John chuckles to himself when he sees the last video is a fifteen-second footage stream of Smokes tearing around the flat as if his tail were afire, leaping furniture and climbing curtains with a truly miraculous speed (he can only hope Sherlock wasn't experimenting on the poor thing with some sort of drug).

Then John turns to the messages, in this odd exploration of Sherlock's gift. Sherlock deletes most of his messages with fair regularity, saving only those he deems worthy of not being deleted (literally or mentally), and so the inbox is empty - but there are several saved messages, and John starts to scroll through them leisurely.

He stares at the very first one, and feels his lips curl in a small smirk.

_I hear you're not dead.  
>Let's have dinner.<em>

John is glad, entirely selflessly glad, to see it. Not because he thinks Sherlock even took Ms. Adler up on the offer - but because someone, at least, had let his friend know that she understood what he did and why. Sherlock would have needed such a confidante, because he's not going to delude himself into thinking Sherlock took a vacation around the world while the rest of London grieved or forgot his loss; no, Sherlock suffered as much, maybe even more so, than the people he had left behind. Sherlock had, one evening a fortnight before Moriarty had resurfaced, told John that he had helped Irene Adler escape in Karachi. John thinks Sherlock probably told him not because he thought John would care, but because he wanted to see John's embarrassed expression when his friend revealed that he knew Mycroft had conscripted John into a lie to hide her execution.

Either way, John's glad to see that Sherlock was right, and more so that he actually kept the short message instead of deleting it during his months in hiding. That of course does not mean John wouldn't like to find out if Sherlock responded and if so, what happened - but he will not ask, because Sherlock has gifted him this without deletion, trusting his loyalty to not turn to the betrayal of inquisitiveness.

He moves on, scrolling swiftly through a series of messages from Mycroft basically reporting facts about the Moriarty organization's chaotic movements, sees the next one is one from Molly Hooper and opens that one.

_John's writing abt u  
>again. It's v. sad, rly.<br>Can't u give him some  
>kind of hope?<em>

John closes his eyes briefly, because he can't imagine the helplessness Sherlock must have felt, given his reasons for staying away those five months. He sighs, and backtracks to the message log, scrolling to the next message set, which is from Mycroft.

_If you accept my offer,  
>I can reduce your time<br>'abroad' by at least half. _

And a second, send only moments later:

_Remember, the longer  
>you tarry, the more they<br>will forget you._

John sees red, fury flashing through him in a wave so strong he could easily go after Mycroft Holmes weaponless, British government or no. The man had no right to say such things, to play upon their unknowing grief in order to force Sherlock to make such a choice -

But, he realises suddenly, if Sherlock had not accepted Mycroft's involvement, it could have been many more months, years even, before he felt it safe enough to return to life and London. Perhaps, just perhaps, that was why Mycroft's ruthless messages had been sent, and saved by his friend - drastic measures, to produce drastic results.

It still does not keep him from wanting to punch the elder Holmes, however.

The next message is from Molly again, just a report on Mrs. Hudson's health. John can't really find it in his heart to hate her; Sherlock had no other recourse for a hospital staff assistant in his scheme, and besides the poor girl gained nothing from it but a guilty conscience and a few brief words of acknowledgement when Sherlock felt he needed to stock up grace with his link back to the living world. She risked her job to help a man who would never return her affection, though he thinks Molly and Sherlock have become actually _friends_ in this interim rather than a man avoiding his one-sided crush.

The next message is from an unknown number, and it chills him to the bone to see it.

_If you are who I think  
>you are, then you<br>understand any further  
>action will have grave<br>consequences for those  
>you left behind.<em>

Obviously, someone in Moriarty's remaining syndicate had found out Sherlock was still alive after all, or at least suspected as much.

The next message, from Mycroft, is chillingly terse.

_Subject eliminated. One  
>more such mistake and<br>your 'sacrifice' will have  
>become pointless.<em>

John shakes his head, pondering anew just how tense that time had to have been for Sherlock, and feeling immensely grateful that it is over, for all their sakes.

The last few messages are just status reports, dated the last few weeks before Sherlock's tornadic return to London, and so he moves on down the list in Messages. Sherlock's Sent folder is empty, which is not surprising, as there would have been no reason for him to even return messages during his absence unless it had been absolutely necessary.

But John is surprised to see that the Drafts folder is nearly full, containing almost a thousand drafted messages.

Obviously, this is no ordinary phone, not with that kind of storage, and now John recognizes it - it's Irene Adler's camera phone, which makes sense for Sherlock to take on the run because of its safety precautions against theft and damage. Sherlock's personal mobile had been left on the roof of St. Bart's - John still has it somewhere - so he had to have been carrying Irene's on his person at the time.

Curious, he opens the folder -

And all nine-hundred-odd messages are drafted to _him_.

He stares at the list for a minute in confusion mingled with disbelief, because why on earth would Sherlock have drafted messages he had no intention of sending? It is a pointless, futile exercise, and John is mystified as to why Sherlock would have even bothered.

But he begins to read, and as he does his heart goes out to a man who had been hiding from the world and all he knew, trying to make it through the days as best he knew how - a man who had only just learnt he had a heart, and who now had no idea how to deal with that knowledge.

_I am so sorry_, is the first message, sent only hours after Sherlock was pronounced dead in the morgue at St. Bart's. John had still been with Lestrade in A&E, half-concussed and shell-shocked with grief.

_I never meant for you to become a pawn in this business,_ follows shortly after. _God knows you are more than that, to me._

_Mycroft said you found the will. Use the money to live, John, and be happy._

_You would be appalled to know the memorial service is being live streamed to me through one of Mycroft's spies, I'll wager._

_Really, John, I am not half the man you seem to believe I was._

_Thank you for not putting something atrociously maudlin on my gravestone._

_You would also be appalled to know Mycroft insists upon surveillance for my graveside as well. You have my permission to punch him in the face when you see him next._

John freezes, because the knowledge that he had been filmed multiple times baring his soul to a piece of marble in a deserted graveyard is not exactly comforting. Perhaps he _will_ punch Mycroft. What was the man going to do, fire him from his unpaid position of guarding his little brother?

_Rough week. You have no idea how much I needed to hear your voice last Sunday, John. Even if you only did ramble endlessly at my stone about nonsensical melodrama in your dating life. Do try to be more interesting next week when you come._

He laughs at that, because the whole absurdity of the thing is so bizarre as to be funny. Sherlock miles away, listening to footage from a hidden camera while John talks to a gravestone, and then calling him out on his mundane conversation...

His life is so strange he should write a television show, not a blog.

_Mycroft is sending me to Europe for a week because one of the members of the gang is getting too close to the truth. He wants me out of the way while the threat is dealt with._

_He frightens me sometimes, John. But if it will enable me to cast off this deception quicker, I cannot afford to have scruples._

_I have not traveled alone for over a year; had forgotten how unpleasant it can be. Even your most boring conversation is still less boring than the alternative._

_Remind me to bring you back to Florence, John. I believe you would enjoy it, and if I recall you have never been to France other than Paris?_

_Someone picked my pocket! Am either losing my touch, or someone suspects who I am. Leaving Montpellier tonight, despite the fact that they acquired nothing more than a false ID and a few odd Euros._

John shivers, because he cannot imagine living in that kind of uncertainty for months at a time; always suspicious, wondering who to trust and who not to, overthinking every odd look and too-friendly passer-by. He scrolls on to the next message.

_Back in London. I saw Lestrade the other day, at a Costa near NSY. If you both take care of each other that is one less thing to occupy my concern._

John smiles briefly and shakes his head at the next message; again with the stalking, apparently. _I see the new girlfriend has better taste in jumpers than the last. Blue is actually a good colour for you._

_Though she seems a bit vacant._

_Cutting her fettuccini into bite-sized pieces? Gauche, John. You can certainly do better._

_I am pleased to see you smile, however artificial it obviously is._

_Are you aware that she is texting someone under the table?_

_Get rid of her. She annoys me._

He winces, but by now can do nothing but laugh at the running commentary. To think that Sherlock had to have been sitting somewhere in the restaurant, watching him...was both creepy and a bit adorable. For Sherlock.

The next few messages are basically repetitive, brief reports of how the investigation is progressing. John continues to scroll through them, a bit more rapidly due to their sheer numbers, and pauses on ones that catch his eye.

_Donovan apologised to you, I assume, since you are actually getting along now. Do not blame her for doing her job, John. There is history there you are unaware of. I was a different man, and I can't blame her._

_Really, John? 'A Case of Identity Theft'? Could you be any less original in your titling? And of all the cases you could start to write up again, you choose the one which presents the least possible features of interest to the criminal investigator?_

_Also, your grammar is atrocious._

_See also spelling._

_I am tempted to comment anonymously and point out the errors, but I doubt I can fit them into 1500 characters._

John rolls his eyes, unable to be offended, and continues through the randomized message drafts.

_I do miss Mrs. Hudson's occasional forays into baking French pastries._

_Also my violin. Do not you dare touch it, John, I wish it unsullied upon my return._

_Molly's cat is possessed, I am nearly certain. What kind of domesticated animal tries to sleep on one's face?_

He stares at that, processing those implications, while scrolling to the next message, sent a moment later.

_Mind out of the gutter, please, John. I am on the couch because have been evicted from my flat. Said couch apparently is Smokes's purring ground of choice._

John chuckles. His coffee now long since gone cold, he reaches for the juice pitcher and pours himself a glass before returning to the messages.

They continue on and on and on, for several pages, all varying in tone and intensity but each just one more tiny piece of Sherlock that John missed out on during those months he spent in hiding. John laughs and frowns and rolls his eyes and even cries a little as he reads the unsent commentary - what had to have been nothing less than therapy for Sherlock, wandering London and Europe so very alone for so many months.

He reaches the final few messages, feeling like he has learned more about his friend in the last...hour and a half, than he has known since they met.

_Mycroft informs me only one man is left whom I must worry about. Stay safe for another week, John._

_Apparently brother mine grew weary of waiting for the tiger to take the bait, and eliminated the problem. Evidently I will be returning home tonight on the next train. I was not given the option to wait until morning. Siblings are a nuisance untold._

_Last message; I will be arriving on your doorstep in ten minutes, if this idiot cab driver will deign to drive like a Londoner. Do please avoid the teeth when you punch me, John. _

_Though even that will be very much worth it. Will you be glad to see me, I have to wonder? Or only angry and hurt. You have every right to be; I would be._

_I hope you are at least pleased to see me, and maybe will relent and say Welcome Home after you've tossed me out the door as I deserve._

John shakes his head as he puts the mobile down on the table, feeling the burn of sympathetic grief behind his eyes. Sherlock had only done what he would have in the same situation, what any true friend would have for those he loved.

How could John possibly fault him for _caring_?

"...I had thought you would be more pleased than upset," Sherlock's hesitant voice comes from the doorway, almost shy in its uncertainty.

"I am," he says quickly, eyes downcast to hide the fact that they probably show pity - Sherlock would die (augh, even his brain did bad puns) before accepting that. "It's probably the single most thoughtful gift someone's ever given me, Sherlock."

"But it also distresses you. I had not thought it would." Sherlock's frown draw his eyebrows together as he sits kitty-corner to John at the table, shoving away the plate of sausage with a look of disgust.

"Only because I hate that you feel you were in the wrong, what you did," John says finally, after a long bracing swig of juice, during which he controls his voice again.

"I lied to everyone, John, over an issue which was slightly more far-reaching than your average, everyday fib," Sherlock pointed out.

The warmth of righteous anger kindles in his heart, and he sets the mobile down to give the lovable idiot his full attention. "You saved our lives by risking - and nearly losing! - your own, Sherlock. How ungrateful would I be, for being _angry_ that you ran scared for months all alone, and refused to put me into a crosshairs by telling me you were alive?"

Sherlock stares at him, eerily similar to how he had last night on the steps, with that does-not-compute-brain-now-rebooting look that twists John's heart in his chest.

"You and that brilliant brain of yours, and you read it all wrong, Sherlock," he sighs, smiling. "Hey, it's not every day I get to say that," he adds brightly, celebrating with a juice-glass toast.

Sherlock snorts, but the lines of tension around his eyes relax as he smiles - one of those odd, shy half-smiles, the _real_ ones, that John likes to think he has helped to evoke more frequently when there's no one else around to comment.

He grins when Sherlock glances around, shrugs, and appropriates a half-full test tube to match his toast.

A creak on the stairs (just the house shifting, since their landlady left yesterday, abandoning them to fend for themselves) makes them both look hastily toward the door.

"I do wish Mrs. Hudson were coming up with a hot coffee-ring or something," John says wistfully for lack of anything more sentimental and Christmassy, as he absently stabs the last (cold) sausage.

"Yes, no doubt her presence would be quite charming," Sherlock mutters testily, placing his test tube back in the rack and then retreating toward his room, probably for his slippers. His dressing gown flutters dramatically behind him, enough that John absently wonders if he practices flinging it about in the mirror. "'Oh sorry, love, are you two having a _moment_?'" His friend says in a high falsetto. "'I'll just be leaving you to it, then.'"

John is rather proud of the fact that he remembers to protect the mobile phone whilst spraying juice all over his place setting.


End file.
